I Attended the Orange County Fair

My Birthday is on July 23

Every year, I get really bummed out about my birthday. You can probably relate. I don't need to go into the reasons because I'm sure you have the same ones, and if you don't, you'll never understand.

I also find it really embarrassing and distasteful when people do this big look-at-me-hooray-it's-my-birthday-look-at-me thing, but I have a problem where I ignore the birthday and I don't tell anyone or think about it, and then it sneaks up on me and it's a shock.

This year, I decided that I'd try something completely different by making a really big deal about the birthday well in advance, which is the opposite of what I normally do. The problem is that I unconsciously did what I always do and I forgot about it until now. The birthday is on July 23, which is nine days away, so it's a little late to start planning a big party or something, but it's not too late for me to make a big deal about it and then get really depressed when nobody remembers.

Yes, I know that some people have called to wish me a happy birthday before and been met with a less-than-enthusiastic response from me, and that doesn't mean that you shouldn't do it, but it does mean that you'll probably never understand.

Contest Song - Part 1

We ran a little contest here a few months back where alert readers of The Gold State Remarks page submitted lyrics for me to put to music. The whole thing was inspired by something similar or "identical" that Geritopia did over at Bloggy Blog. You can read about it here on my old blog. (I'm trying to avoid the word "blog" in general, but you wouldn't know it to read this post, would you?)

Thanks to everyone who submitted stuff, because certainly, you didn't have to, and sorry it took so long, but I'm finally getting around to recording the thing. It's eventually going to be a medley with five or six different parts, but I'm posting only the first part right now, I guess, as a "teaser" of sorts.

This part contains words submitted by Cocovan and Geritopia with just a few supplemental words thrown in by me. It's a really rough mix, obviously, but I think it's appropriate for a teaser of sorts.

Click HERE to listen to Part 1 of the medley, "Easy Breezy Japanesey."
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"Easy Breezy Japanesey"

Easy Breezy Japanesey
You've got the way to set yourself free
Easy Breezy Japanesey
You've got the way to set yourself free

Easy Breezy Japanesey
Greaseneck monkeys all in a row
Easy Breezy Japanesey
Like snowbanks on your worried furrow

Easy Breezy Japanesey
Feed the people watching TV
Easy Breezy Japanesey
They need help, on that we agree

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Thanks for playing, and more soon.

Good Night and Good Vibrations

"I ain't a-scared o' no firey-works!" -Staff Photo

Why is it that you can never buy the right amount of crackers? You never end the evening by saying something like, "Wow, look; one cracker left." It's always, "Jesus, look at all these fucking crackers."

(With apologies to every comedian ever.)

Deadly Nightingales

So there's a new Adam Sandler movie called "Click," which is about a man with a magic remote control. Is this the most retarded idea for a movie ever? I'm thinking it just might be.

There's something about the billboard with the bloated, misshapen remote control and Adam Sandler's smug, smirking face that yells to me, "Dude. You are gonna LOVE this." If you're like me, your imagination instantly starts running wild with all the scenarios in which it would be so awesome to have a remote control.

Then to further goad your fertile imagination (as if you needed it) there's the supplemental billboards that show:

1. A screaming baby with a giant "MUTE" button.
2. A man viewed from behind wearing a Speedo with a giant "FAST-FORWARD" button.
3. A close up of a woman's cleavage with a giant "SLO-MO" button.

Get it? Because everybody hates screaming babies and men's asses, but everybody LOVES boobs! Right everybody? Because when you see boobs, you wanna slooow down and take a real goood look! But when you hear a little brat screaming its head off, you wanna shut that kid up, right?! Shut the kid up and get rid of that man's ass! Ugh!

Hey! This gives me an awesome idea! If I could just invent a product that would help people enjoy things they liked, while helping them avoid things they hate, I'd really be onto something! Because good=good and bad=bad! It's so simple, I don't know why I didn't think of it before.

I just realized it's never going to work. Too many people hate good things and vice versa.

That movie's going to flop, too. Big time.

Alliteration is Cool

Can I just share this, Dear Reader, that the crappy neighbors are moving? Yes, they're moving and I'm pretty happy about it, I can tell you.

You may recall that these neighbors, a man and woman of indeterminate age, moved in about a year ago and promptly summoned the police to our door because we had a really small gathering and were playing music on the stereo at a low volume on a Friday night. Who does that? Who moves into a new place and then calls the cops on the perfectly resonable and affable young hipster couple next door?

You may also recall, Dear Reader (but possibly not and you would quickly be forgiven), that these are the same unreasonable neighbors who complained to us numerous other times about numerous other things. One time, they came to my door at 6:00 on a weekday evening to complain about me playing music (my vinyl copy of The Slider, if anyone cares). I stood in the doorway, incredulous, as you can well imagine, and much the way you might stand if someone had the nerve to disturb you in such a way.

The guy invited me to come over to his place next door to hear what it sounded like in there, and I accepted, because I truly don't want to be an ass, and I would never want to infringe on anyone's tranquility the way he was making it seem like I was. I fully expected to step into his place and hear some kind of echoey, booming caucophany as if the exact placement of my speakers freakishly just happened to be above certain beams that carried and amplified the vibrations, making our units into some kind of giant string-cup-telephone thing. I really did, I thought it was going to be loud, and I was all prepared to say something like, "Golly, mister! I had no idea it sounded like that over here! I sure am sorry!"

Yes, but guess what? Of course, I couldn't hear anything. That's right. I stood there leaning forward, head cocked, straining to hear something as the guy gestured at his living room in self-satisfied, I-rest-my-case smugness.

He said, "See? We're sitting here, quietly trying to read, and there's this, 'Boom, boom, boom.'" I stood there in silence for a few more seconds, and then, finally my ears adjusted, there it was, the faintest little booming you've ever heard.

I told them that I could barely hear it, but that I would turn it down a bit, just as a show of good faith or whatever. I added that it was unreasonable for them to expect us to be imperceptible to them.

I mean, really. What would it take for you to feel compelled to march over to someone's home, pound on their door and tell them to shut up or whatever? Jesus. I'm saying that it would have to be a lot more than the faintest little booming you've ever heard.

Then there was that one time when we had our Three's Company theme party, and I tried to be nice so I wrote a note to them, giving them more than a week's notice, informing them that we would be having a party the following Saturday, with approximately however-many people, and that although they were sure to hear something, because after all it IS a party, we would try to keep the noise level down and if it got crazy to give us a call, here's my cell, and THEY responded with a note to US saying that they would allow us to have the party but that we should be aware that his wife had to wake up for work at 6 AM the next morning which was a SUNDAY and quoting the various rules that were were breaking by even having a party at all and suggesting that we'd better keep it down after 11:00 and what I REALLY wanted to do after that was march over there and inform them that, listen to me now, I was in no was ASKING you for permission to have the party, I was merely TELLING you that I was having one because I'm a polite and nice person who has fucking manners.

Anyway, Dear Reader, they're moving, and I don't even feel like telling you about all the other ways they're only ever been c0mplete, 100% creeps to us, but jesus christ we're going to have a really big party to celebrate on their last night here.

I Heart Invisible Martyrs

My romantic interest and I took her toddler niece with us (22 months old, if that means anything to anybody) on our afternoon excursions today and I learned some things:

1. I curse a lot.
2. I'm never ever having kids never ever I don't care what you say.
3. Never ever.

I racked my brain today trying to come up with some kind of amusing trick to teach the child. I want to top or match the thing that another friend of the parents taught her. Check this out: If you're drinking a beverage and the child is drinking from her, um, "sippy cup," and you say, "Cheers," to her, she'll cheerily blurt, "Cheers," and heartily clink drinking vessels with you!

Despite my stubborn persistence, and to my great astonishment, the child inexplicably failed to show any interest whatsoever in mimicking my Ricky Ricardo-esque, "AI-ai-AIs." The best I could do today was that I taught her to act pensive. Now, if you ask her a question, she puts her index finger up to her cheek, looks skyward and lets out a really long and deliberate, "Hmmmmmmm."

Stacked, Cracked & Mittens

This weekend, the Laguna Art Museum will present a joint show by artists Tim Biskup and Gary Baseman. It should be a major dorkfest.

I'm so there.

I've never been to the Laguna Art Museum, and I haven't spent much time in Laguna Beach, but it's really pleasant and "California-y."

Actually, I went to a party a few years ago in Laguna. Friends of friends of friends or something. They were these wired coke/porn people. I don't know what their deal was. I didn't really like them.

This should probably not affect this weekend's art show in any way.

UPDATE: I just noticed that I wrote "wired" instead of "weird," but the former is actually a better fit.

Dingy & Singed

You know that trite little workplace phrase that people sometimes use, "Work smarter, not harder?"

OK, check it out. If you subscribe to the school of thought that believes this is helpful and/or makes sense, then what would you say about labor-saving devices? You couldn't really say that a labor-saving device would make your job "easier," since you're not working "hard" in the first place, just "smart."

I guess if you embrace that, "Work smarter, not harder," thing, you'd have to say that labor-saving devices allow you to work "less smart."

Salesman: If you implement this thing, your job will be much, much easier.

Boss: What do you mean, "Easier?" I work smarter, not harder.

Salesman: Oh, well, I mean, if you implement this thing, you can work more stupid.

Missions Impossibles

Do I have to do everything around here?

Castles Made of Sand Castles

We're having what we call a "heat wave" here in Southern California. It was hotter than a welldigger's family christmas album today, and that's pretty hot.

But, I went to one of the best art shows I've ever been to today, "The Société Anonyme: Modernism for America," at the UCLA Hammer museum. They had more Duchamps, Man Rays and Ernsts than you could ever hope to shake a stick at.

The thing that captivated me for the longest, however, was Max Ernst's Paris Dream. I'd seen it in books many times before, and it was pretty cool to stand face-to-face with it.

Plus, the Hammer's never too crowded. We've got some really world-class museums here in Los Angeles, but sometimes LACMA gets a bit cramped, and if you go to the Getty, you always have to fight the undiscerning throngs of soccer moms who have no interest in art but are only there to have lunch because of the view or whatever.

Nothing against soccer or motherhood, mind you, but screw those people.

Blue Bonnet on it

This weekend, my companions and I happened upon some "model homes." I always like touring model homes because they're always set up to look as though someone lives there, so there are plenty of things like framed snapshots of people, fake baked goods on kitchen counters, fake breakfast trays on beds, and even fake notes on refrigerators and desks. I find it kind of creepy because I feel like I'm poking around in someone's home without permission, about to be discovered any minute. I also think it's amusing because the whole thing is just a big charade designed to manipulate people, and it's all so utterly lost on me.

We had to go through a main office kind of place first, though, and an older guy who worked there asked if he could help us. I realized I couldn't really say, "We're here to make a complete mockery out of everything," so I stammered something about wanting to look at the model homes.

"Are you looking for yourself or for your parents?"

"For...for us," I said.

"Oh, did you know that this is a 55-and-over community?"

One of my quick-thinking companions said something intelligent-sounding and the guy happily turned us loose into the homes, but I found it bizarre how easily I slid into junior-high-schooler-ditching-class mode, especially considering I'm nearly 80.

We had loads of laughs pretending to eat fake candy apples and pretending to trip while carrying breakfast trays fully laden with fake coffee and fake croissants.

Checkered Past Cabs

I'm going to LACMA to get a glimpse of some Klimts (Thanks for that one, Carlos!).

Kraft Singles

It's finally here! No more pencils or books, and no more dirty looks - not from teachers, anyway! That's right, school's out for summer (but not forever), and I'm going to make this the most exciting summer yet, starting now, with a liberal sprinkling of sentences ending in exclamation points!

My grades are already in, too, which surprises me. I guess all of my instructors were eager to dole out Bs to me. That's what I got, a B in each class. Is this impressive or disappointing? Do you expect better or worse from me? Actually, I think that's pretty good, considering how poor my attitude was this semester.

My girlish accomplice and I got a really nice chair last weekend however, which is already improving our lives immensely. I keep wanting to write about it, but I haven't had a chance to take a picture and I figured what's the point. I found the picture below on the internet, and our chair is exactly like it, except in black. It's a knockoff of one of those Eames chairs , and it was made by the Plycraft company in the 60s or 70s.We found it in the lamest thrift store in the region, the Salvation Army on 6th and Pacific in San Pedro. I haven't bought anything there in years because there's never anything useful or good or even entertainingly bad in there. It's the most dismal, depressing, malodorous thrift store I've ever been in. It doesn't have that mildew-y smell that some thrift stores have. I kind of like that smell actually, and it doesn't really smell like dust either. Those smells actually appeal to me, and I welcome them as olfactory clues that there are bargains to be had. The Salvation Army on 6th and Pacific in San Pedro just smells like baby diapers and corpses.

That's why I was pretty surprised to see this chair in there. It had a $40 price tag on it, but I knew it was worth a bit more than that. I thought about trying to haggle with them about the price, but the tag indicated that the chair had only been there one day. As I brought the chair up to the front counter, I abandoned any ambition of haggling, because I actually hate haggling, but for some reason, the lady at the register decided to charge me $30. I guess I must've charmed her or something.

Anyway, we brought the chair home, and I scrubbed off all the diaper/corpse residue, and we moved some other furniture around to make room for it, which resulted in an amazingly harmonious arrangement that, almost magically, made our place seem much larger and more peaceful and much more fun.

So my advice to you is, "Buy that chair, you'll be glad you did."

A Bayonet is a Gun and a Knife

At practice last night, we agreed to have a "fake British accent jar." It's a lot like a "swearing jar," where people deposit money every time they swear, except, in our case, the offender has to put a nickel in every time he says something into the microphone in a phony British accent.

To be fair, I should mention that I'm the only one who ever does it, except for David, who occasionally does it in response to me doing it, but always in a gallant effort to make it seem less awkward that I'm the only one doing it.

We only just came up with the idea last night, so we didn't have an actual jar yet, but already the guys were trying to bust me for talking in what was clearly a bogus Australian accent.

If you want to play that game, that's a whole different jar.

This Could Be The Real Thing But Probably Not

There's this girl who works in the office at the day job, a very sweet girl actually, but she does this one thing that drives me absolutely bonkers.

She frequently snacks on edamame, but she eats them in the most ghastly possible way. Most people gently squeeze the sides of the pods as if they were damp, fuzzy coin purses, causing them to easily open, and then they gingerly pluck the glistening beans from within. This girl holds the end of the pod with her fingertips and then inserts the rest of it into her mouth where she begins to suck and gnaw and slurp on it, frequently removing it from her mouth to inspect her handiwork and gesture with it while speaking. I've only ever seen one person eat edamame like this before, and it was equally disgusting. I figured out that they most likely do it this way in a desperate attempt to savor every molecule of salt from the shell.

Also she says, "EdamaNE," with an "n." That's two things, I guess.

The other day she was standing next to me , waving one of her frayed soybean carcasses at me and I said to her, "You know, I can suggest an alternate method of eating edamaME that doesn't require quite so much sucking and gnawing..."

If you think that was harsh, I have this to say to you: Sir or Madam, this is the way in which I prefer to roll.

Not Going for the Gold

Hi!

I haven't been writing much, I know. Finals.

I have my final Final Exam tonight, though. It's not my FINAL final Final, school's just out for summer. I've still got a bit more schooling until I graduate.

Anyway, I'm very much looking forward to being done with this semester. "Look out," is all I'm saying.

Look out for me.

The Gold State will be playing some shows, and we'll be doing some recording as well.

So, do look out for me, and us, and that.

Ding Dang

My special female significant and I were with some friends a couple of weeks ago, when the guy broke out a bootleg DVD of a special that Mr. T made in the 80s called "Be Somebody...Or Be Somebody's Fool." There were lots of amazing moments, but by far, the stand-out segment is one where Mr T raps in a musical number called "Treat Your Mother Right." It blew our minds, which aren't easily blown. My friend promised to burn me a copy of the DVD.

Today, to my extreme delight, and totally by coincidence, I stumbled across the video for "Treat Your Mother Right," which some sick bastard posted to YouTube. It was linked to on Neatorama in honor of Mother's Day, which makes complete sense, you have to admit.

You have to watch this. It's the greatest thing ever, and it's going to alter the way you do everything from now on.

Link

Catch as Catch Can (Catch)

Happy Mothers' Day, everyone!

So I spent Mothers' Day with some mothers and it was fun and everything and there was lots of joy but I couldn't help thinking that it would be a nice gesture if we had a similar counterpart day for fathers.

Nothing against mothers, you understand. They deserve everything they get and then some. Mothers are awesome.

I'm hereby proposing that we set aside one day each year to day to celebrate fathers. How does that sound? I don't have any ideas for a name yet, though.

Anybody got anything?

Ship in a Bottleneck

I've got this awesome idea. Check it out.

OK, you know how all across the globe there are time zones, and each time zone has a difference of one hour? We all know that this is essentially just a dictation from the man though, because in reality, there are no physical zones. However, the world is turning, and it actually is later in Arizona than it is in Los Angeles, for example.

But, it's also later in Long Beach than it is in San Pedro, again, for example, although they're only a few miles apart. The sun definitely sets slightly sooner in Long Beach, our neighbor to the east.
So here's my idea: Split up each of the current time zones into 60 smaller zones so that the time difference between each one is one minute. I figure if there are 24 time zones on earth and it's working out pretty well, then 1440 time zones would have to be even better.

Wouldn't that be awesome?

Stitch Not in Time

Calling all haters: Brian, who plays drums for The Gold State, has a band called The Leeches, and they're playing tomorrow night (Friday) at Harold's in San Pedro. They do a crazy, crazy instrumental thing, and they're quite renowned, locally and otherwise, in case you're not aware.

I'm going. Go.

The Leeches

Friday, May 12, 2006 at Harold's
1908 S. PACIFIC AVE. (19TH & PACIFIC), SAN PEDRO, CA 90731
Cost: free

Times and bands are subject to change. 21 & Up / Full Bar
THE MEGAHURTS 9:00 PM THE MEDIKS (from Portland, Oregon) 9:45 PM (members of BERZERK) THE CHUCK DUKOWSKI SEXTET 10:30 PM THE LEECHES 11:30 + POSSIBLE SPECIAL GUEST(S)

Your Time to Shine

(I usually never talk about "music" here on The Gold State Remarks Page, but please bear with me. I'm doing some "research.")

Attention, self-centered musician-types: Does anybody know what kind of acoustic guitar pickup is good these days? By "good" I mean one that sounds "warm" and/or "nice" and/or everything.

For example, I used to hate those transducer pickups because they sounded like "crap." Have they made any great technological advancements in the last few years? I also thought that regular magnetic pickups distorted too much, too, but are there better ones now?

Sure, I could "research" this on the internet, but I wanted to know if any of you discerning "musicians" have made any recent discoveries.

I'll never ask you for anything ever again, I promise.

Heres and Theres

I have no idea if I'll be able to convey this, but here goes:

I'm walking through the lobby of my day job's building, toward the elevator. As I round the corner, I can see that there is a lady standing at the rear of one of the elevators, waiting for the doors to close. As I walk, I'm trying to debate whether I have time to get aboard that one or not.

I've pretty much decided that I'm just going to wait for the next elevator when I notice that the lady is looking right at me, with a strange, smug facial expression. Suddenly, before the doors even begin moving, from her stationary position, she lets out a completely unnecessary and inappropriately loud shout-y type of noise, which was intended to convey to me, "Oh, I so want to help you get on this elevator, but, alas, it is too late! I have only just noticed you, and it's impossible for me to reach the 'Hold door' button in time! God save you, good sir!"

Of course, at this point, I'm thinking it would be kind of funny if I were to end up riding the elevator with this lady. I take these elevators every day, so I'm aware of how much time passes before the doors close, and I estimate that if I take two giant strides, I'll make it, and I do. However, the doors just begin to close, and I break the electric eye beam, causing them to lurch open, momentarily, before finally shutting.

"I'm OK, I've got it," I say cheerily, with mock gratitude.

This is how I roll.

Stinkin' Badges

At OfficerStore.com you can build and order your own real-looking badges, which is sort of creepy and scary but what makes me giddy with delight is that you can preview them online.



I dare you not to do at least one. (Via Neatorama)

Sick and/or Tired

I've been doing lots of "home-work" and studying because the school semester is almost over, which is one of the reasons I haven't been writing much here.

I was in one of my classes last night, and the professor came over to me and asked if I'd seen the Société Anonyme show at the UCLA Hammer Museum, and I told him that, no, I hadn't seen it yet, although I'd like to. (In case you're not an art dork, the Société Anonyme was an art organization founded in 1920 by Katherine Dreier, Man Ray and Marcel Duchamp.)

He had brought up the Société Anonyme show because way back on the first day of the semester, he had asked me what my major was, and I told him it was art. When he asked me who my favorite artists were, I told him Duchamp and Man Ray.

So, naturally, I was flattered because the guy remembered this detail about me all these months later.

But then, a short while later, he passed out the instructor evaluation forms. Occasionally at the end of a semester, instructors are required to have students fill out these forms so that the school can determine whether the instructors suck or not. I realized the guy was trying to suck up to me so I'd give him a good evaluation. The nerve.

So, naturally, I wrote a glowing evaluation because I truly am that shallow.

Wick of the Moment

I have this funny story, and the friends and family members I've told it to in person have laughed heartily at it, but I know the story is very dependent on vocal inflections and physical gestures of incredulity, so I know I'm gonna blow it by writing it here, and if I see you soon and you've already read it here, it'll have ruined the whole thing for you, but check this out.

I took a date to an Indian restaurant based solely on the recommendation of a co-worker whose judgment I'm seriously beginning to question. The first sign something was amiss was that there were only 2 other tables that had people seated at them in the whole place, and it was a Friday night. We were seated by a hyper-gracious Indian man who brought us very delicious, but mouth-searingly spicy papadam.

The waitress came to our table right as we sat down and asked, "Who had the Iced tea?" We told her that we hadn't ordered anything yet, and she stood there with a totally inappropriate amount of befuddlement for way too long, and then muttered something like, "Oh...it must have been one of the other people at..." and then she very slowly wandered off. There were only two other parties in the whole place!

At this point, I should mention that, although the people who ran the restaurant were clearly Indian-born, the waitress was most definitely from here, so there wasn't a, "Language barrier," as each listener has suggested to me so far. Good suggestion, though.

She came back to take our order, and we told her that were were going to get the "Bombay Special" or the "New Delhi Special" or whatever it was called. It said on the menu that we could choose chicken or lamb for the main dishes, and we knew we were going to get chicken because
neither one of us ever eat lamb, ever. Never ever.

She said, "Ok, I just have a couple of questions for you. Would you like lamb biryani or chicken biryani?"

"Chicken biryani," I said. "Actually, we're going to get chicken everything. No lamb."

She scribbled on her waitress-pad. "OK...and would you like that mild, medium, or spicy?" We remembered the papadam and agreed on, "Medium," just to play it safe.

"OK...and would you like tandoori lamb or tandoori chicken?"

"Um, chicken. Tandoori chicken." My date and I were kind of chuckling uncomfortably and looking at each other, trying to figure out if the girl was trying to be funny, and trying to laugh with her if she was.

"Actually, to save you the trouble of asking all these questions, we're going to get everything chicken and everything medium. No lamb."

"OK...and would you like that mild, medium, or spicy?"

"Medium," my date and I said in a somewhat sing-song-y unison. I continued,"Heh, heh, gotta ask the questions, right? Medium, though. Seriously, everything chicken and everything medium."

"OK..." She jotted. "Now I just a have a couple more questions for you...would you like chicken curry or lamb curry?"

"???!!"

"Umm, chicken?" I said. "And medium on the chicken curry, too, please? Everything, um, chicken, and everything medium, too, just to make it... easy?"

Then she began to read the order back to us, "OK, you've got lamb biryani-"

"No," my date interrupted, bemusedly. "Chicken. No lamb. Everything chicken."

"Yes, chicken biryani," she said, as if that's what she had said the first time. She then rattled off the rest of the order correctly.

"Just to be clear," I added, "Everything chicken and everything medium. No lamb." She confirmed that she understood.

You have to think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not.

Of course, when the food came, everything was lamb, except the tandoori chicken, so we called her over. "Hi, I think there's been a mistake. This is lamb, but we ordered chicken. Remember? 'Chicken everything?'"

"No," she said, with a completely straight face, "You ordered lamb."

You should know that I'm not one of those people who's demanding of servers at all. I've had lots of friends who've worked in restaurants, so I know all the stuff they hate, and I go out of my way not to do these things. I always tip well, I never send food back, and I go out of my way to ask for all the stuff I need at the same time, so they don't have to keep running back and forth for me.

After many moments of stunned silence, she said, "It doesn't come with chicken. Only lamb."

We assured her that not only did the menu clearly say that it comes with lamb or chicken, we reminded her that she had also asked us which one we wanted, and that we told her chicken, no lamb, repeatedly.

"Let me check the menu," she said, and she walked away, leaving my date and I to shrug at each other. When she returned, she looked at the menu, and without showing it to us, triumphantly said, "Nope, see, it only comes with lamb!" My date said, "Can I see that," and began to tug at the menu, which eventually the waitress relinquished.

"No, see right here, it clearly says that the biryani comes with, 'Chicken or lamb.'"

Long pause.

"Well...it comes with lamb. Nobody ever gets chicken."

"Look, I said, it's no big deal, it's just a mistake. We ordered chicken. Can you just take it back, please, and get us the chicken?"

Long pause.

"It only comes with lamb."

"Well, OK, let's forget that for a minute," my date said, pretty annoyed by this point, but still being a really good sport. "This is lamb curry here, we specifically asked for chicken, and the menu is very clear about this. Look, it says,'Your choice of chicken or lamb curry. There's no way to misinterpret that.'"

After a pause, the waitress looked right at me and said, "It's chickenlamb."

CHICKENLAMB!!!

I'm not making this up. I have a witness.

My date said, incredulously, "Chickenlamb. It's, 'Chickenlamb?'"

"Yes. Chickenlamb."

Pause.

"You know," I said very calmly (and you have to be wondering why I didn't say this earlier) "We're...we're gonna leave."

Right then, the gracious guy from earlier ran over and vowed to fix everything, and we wanted to leave anyway, but we didn't, and then the chef came out and was overly apologetic and ashamed, but we told him it was no big deal, that it was just a mistake, and then we got our correct food, and it was quite good, and the waitress came over and apologized as if she had insulted us, which she had, and everything was really awkward, but I didn't even care, because I like this story.

Books Ahoy!

Attention, haters!

Those of you who know me in real life are likely to also know Amanda Cole (whom I don't wish to pigeonhole by forcing a traditional label onto, or, "oppress," by defining by her by her relationship to me), who's a hardworking artist and designer. She's far too modest to boast about this, but some of her typography work has been featured in a book called Type Rules!: The Designer's Guide to Professional Typography which is published by Wiley. I don't have an image of her actual work, but here's a link to a PDF of the book's index, which shows her name.

How could I not mention this?

She's going to kill me tonight.

Aunt and Uncle and

copacetic zine has a new podcast, and I order you to go "Download" it and "Listen" to it (I don't even know what those high tech terms mean, but, oddly enough, I'm creepily familiar with the word "Podcast").

There's really good stuff on there that you'll like for sure. Yes, there's a The Gold State song on there, but you can fast-forward past it.

Sixteen Candles and a Bottle of Rum

The show at the Good Hurt last night was really amazing. I mean, we played pretty well, I think, but who cares about that. I was really pleasantly surprised to see so many friends there on a school night. If you couldn't be there, Gerit drew a picture that, I think, captures the true essence of the evening . There are so many really good, sitcom-worthy stories that unfolded there too, but not all of them are mine to tell.

Amanda took these nifty pictures.


I'm torn between the desire to make us sound more successful and jaded than we really are and the urge to relay the weird discomfort of last night, but I can't resist the latter.

We were completely, 100% out of place on the bill. The first band, specifically, was way more, "Wheedle-ee, wheedle-ee," and "Metal" or whatever than we were. I'll say, unreservedly, that they were the absolute polar opposite of us. There's no way anyone could come up with a better example of different-than-The-Gold-State if they tried.


The guys all had really long hair and they all kept whipping the hair back and forth in unison, and they all had amps that were taller than them. The singer kept yelling "Masculine" things like, "Our songs are about smokin' weed and eatin' pu$$y! Whoo!" Their rather sizeable crowd seemed kind of like--and I say this merely out of an effort to be descriptive--a bunch of, um, "Rednecks." We figured we were going to get beaten up as soon as Brian took his jacket off and revealed his Morrissey t-shirt.


Of course we're watching this, and realizing that these people aren't going to like us, and just as I'm becoming comfortable with this idea and relishing it, the singer announces their final song, and prefaces it with some half-baked tirade about how, "Pop music," is , like, the worst thing in the universe or something, and then...THEN...they launch into the song which is actually entitled something to that effect, and I just turned to our little group in total incredulity. That's what you would've done.


As we were setting up, I crossed paths with the bassist from the first band, and I said, "That kicked ass," to which he responded, "Thanks. Good times."

So, we just got up there and played it as straight as we could.

That's what you would have done.

Ferry 'Cross the Mersey

Attention, behind-back-talkers, smear-campaigners, outright liars, friends, neighbors and beloved acquaintances: In case you don't know, we're playing at Club Good Hurt on Sunday. I know a few of you who are coming, so please be sure to print out the above flyer because you'll get a discount.

If you don't have a good time, I'll give you a million dollars.

Irrational Explanation

My friend asked me about Lonesome Jim, which I'd seen a couple of weeks ago, and I told him that, although it was good, I didn't like it as much as I had hoped.

"Who stars in that movie anyway?"

"Oh, uh...Casey Affleck and Liv Tyler were the main characters."

"Oh. Heh, heh. Liv Tyler. (Pause) Was there any confetti in this movie?"

There was a long pause. Of course, I'm thinking that there's some movie or reality show or tabloid gossip that I'm not aware of where Liv Tyler is associated with confetti.

"Um, what? Confetti?"

"Yeah. -Wait. Isn't Liv Tyler that wacky comedian guy with the handlebar mustache who throws buckets of confetti all over the place?"

Listen To The Computer Radio

Today (Wednesday the 19th) at 4:00, The Gold State's bass guitarist, David, will be playing live on UCLAradio with his other band, The Black Heartthrobs.

David's really good, and his songs are really good, so if you don't listen, you'll probably be reasonably sorry. I'm not trying to be funny or anything.

Do You Believe in Magic and Why Not?

You know how you're usually sitting around on a Sunday evening thinking about how you have to work the next day, and wishing that you could go out to have a drink and see a show in Culver City at 9:30?

You are SO in luck, because The Gold State is playing just such a show this Sunday, April 23 at Club Good Hurt.

The Gold State
Sunday, April 23 - 9:30
Club Good Hurt
www.goodhurt.net
12249 Venice Boulevard, (West) Los Angeles

It only costs five dollars if you print this flyer and give it to the door-person. What do you know about that? (That was a rhetorical question, so please don't feel compelled to compose a reply.)

How do you like us now? (Also rhetorical, for the record.)

Breaker One Nine

Four things I thought about today:

1. You
2. You
3. You
4. And You
   

Happy Dead Christ Day!

Happy Dead Christ Day, everyone! On this day, over two thousand-ish years ago, Jesus lay completely dead for the entire day.

Each year, to honor this occasion, the Vatican wheels out a golden coach that contains the skull of Christ on a really fancy embroidered pillow, and they have a giant parade through the streets of Rome with banners and trumpets and everything.

It's fucking amazing.

Straps Ahoy(?)

At the risk of ruining the in-joke, I thought I'd ruin the in-joke by revealing that the below drawings of The Gold State is our homage to Western Truck Exchange, whose mudflaps we Southern Californians have been admiring for over a quarter century. Losanjealous, not entirely incidentally, ran an informative thing about them recently.

I reveal the source of the in-joke as a non-exclusive, populist gesture for the benefit of our out-of-town visitors, as well as in response to the folks who asked what the hell.

Miniseries'

Baby Binaca

At the risk of sounding too Andy Rooney-esque, I'd like to call attention to the people who lick their fingers and apply saliva to them in order to turn pages or shuffle paper.

At the risk of sounding too Seinfeld-esque, who are these people?

How did this practice ever become socially acceptable? It's kind of disgusting, don't you think? I can't even imagine doing it. I tried to do it just now, but I only got as far as licking my fingertips and reaching for the page. I couldn't actually bring myself to wipe my saliva on it. Why? Because it's fucking gross. How does this ever become second nature for people? How many times must you do it before it becomes automatic? Why must you subject the rest of us to your frothy whims?

I assume people who do it claim to do so because it prevents pages from sticking together. Maybe that's true, and maybe it isn't, but I'm sure there are other bodily fluids that would work even better than spit to help separate pages, and eventually, one would reach the point of diminishing returns.

Like, "Yes, I'm turning pages really fast, but now there's the problem with all the flies."

Scapegoat City

Hi. What's a burrito?

It's ingredients rolled up into a tortilla, right? Yes. That's why "The World's Biggest Burrito" is always such bullshit, because it's invariably made with multiple tortillas. I think in order to really qualify, a "Giant Burrito" should have to be made with one single giant fucking tortilla.

Oh, but, "Mew, mew, mew, where are we gonna get a tortilla that big, or an oven that big, or maybe not necessarily an oven, but whatever people cook tortillas on?" Did you ever hear Gustav Eiffel whining about, "Where are we gonna get a whatever?" No, you fucking did not, so quit moaning, and if you have to, make the oven yourself, or maybe not an oven but whatever it is people cook tortillas on, even if you have to melt down the iron and forge one yourself and just make the biggest goddamn burrito in the world.

What part of this do you not understand?

World's Largest Burrito

At the M&Ms website, you can design your own custom M&Ms. Did you know this? You can type in whatever you want and see a little preview.They won't allow you to see, "Potentially offensive or inappropriate messages," however, so you might have to get creative.
Yeah, I know.

Feel For You

I've been sick for the past couple of days, which is why I haven't written anything. You forget how unpleasant sickness can be when you haven't been sick in a while. Don't you?

I've got some kind of flu/intense headache thing that I've never had before. Yikes. I need to go lie down.

Ok, bye.

Gale Gordon

Longtime visitors to the The Gold State Remarks page will know that I'm kind of afraid of bees. This is possibly the main reason that you're longtime visitors, though probably not. My melissaphobia (or apiphobia if you prefer the Greek root to the Latin one) isn't the most severe possible incarnation. If a bee comes too close to me, I simply duck and run involuntarily. Sometimes, it's accompanied by high-pitched, little-girl-like shrieking.

I discovered the other night at practice that three out of the four The Gold State members are afflicted with a fear of bees (Brian's the only one who isn't), which might be useless from a marketing perspective, but I think it's really kind of useful in terms of planning or not planning outdoor events, especially ones with loads of nearby nectar-laden flowers.

Cannonball Run II

My girl-companion was browsing at the department store makeup counter yesterday as I stood by, idly, most likely fidgeting with something, distractedly. She happened to be wearing a t-shirt that said, "I (heart) Dirty Rocker Boys."

"Ha! I like your shirt," said the salesgirl to her. "That's pretty funny." My girl-companion said, "Oh, thanks," or something like that.

Then the salesgirl said to me, "Are you a dirty rocker?"

Pause.

"Well, I'm 'Dirty,' but I'm not sure if I really 'Rock' all that much...it's certainly debatable."

There ensued a surprising amount of laughter.

"That's funny," the salesgirl said.

She must have been from New York or something.

Abbondanza!

Are you a right-brain or left-brain person? I can never remember which one I am, which indicates that I'm probably a right-brainer.

I guess.

Musical Demonstration

Hot off the "Presses*," we've got a show on Sunday April 23, at Club Good Hurt in West LA. We're going on at 9:30. This'll come in handy for those of you who lament that we never play any shows up in that area.

We took the earliest available slot, because it's a Sunday and we're concerned about you getting a good night's sleep. We know you haven't been sleeping enough.

I'll remind you.

The Gold State
Sunday, April 23 - 9:30
Club Good Hurt
WWW.GOODHURT.NET
12249 Venice Boulevard, (West) Los Angeles

* Disclaimer: There are no "Presses."
(The above date and time are correct now, thanks to the alert Mighty Doctor Illusion.)

The Battle of 1814

Have you ever tried Campari? I never had, but I'd always wanted to, I mean, just look at it. It's reddish. And look at that logo. It says, "Wear light-colored pants and an ascot, sit under an umbrella emblazoned with me in a Northern Italian outdoor bistro at the foot of the alps, and cross your legs at the knee."
A bottle of Campari caught my eye at the store yesterday evening, so I brought some home, and I prepared a couple of drinks mixed with fresh-squeezed orange juice and splashes of soda, over ice, and I wanted so much to like it, but I kind of didn't. It tastes a little like evergreen trees smell. My girl-companion found it so disagreeable that she couldn't take more than a couple of sips without making a face that caused my heart to hurt, so I ended up drinking both of ours.

I slept really well, though, and I feel very well-rested and relatively sharp today, so maybe Campari is one of those tastes-like-crap-but-makes you-feel-great-the-next-day beverages, which certainly has its place, as far as I'm concerned.

Tennis Raquet

People keep asking me, "When are you going to post some really blurry pictures of The Gold State practicing?" Ready, set, go.

That's David, our "New" bass guitarist.

That's Leo. Are you supposed to put periods in captions?

Leo took this picture of Brian and me. Periods seem appropriate.

Midlife Christs

Although I don't feel driven to divulge details of my every exploit, I did something this weekend which I'd like to recommend and/or remind you of. I made a return visit to the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Los Angeles, which my companions and I really enjoyed. It's one of the best things in the whole goddamn world, and I say that about precious few things. You should go, you shameless, cringe-inducing, attention starved trollop.

Ming Vase

I don't feel the need to comment on every show I attend, but I saw Belle And Sebastian with The New Pornographers last night at the Wiltern, and it was really great. I can't remember seeing a show where the opening act was such a good one. I've been listening to both of those bands a lot lately, so it was a very appropriate bill for me. I noticed a couple of peripheral things.

I was enjoying The New Pornographers' set very much, and about halfway through, It occurred to me that the faint yet distinct odor of chocolate cake baking had begun to permeate the venue at some point. Naturally, this smell had subconsciously put me in a relatively blissful state, and I had sort of flashed back to Saturday-morning-cartoon/Mom-baking-in-the-kitchen mode. I resolved to find a way to harness this smell and bestow it upon the audience at the next The Gold State show to enhance their enjoyment.

I also noticed, and this is not a good or bad thing, that there were not that many black people there.

The Truth About Ramps and Lanterns

You can make your own here.

Tilt A Whirl

I read the Bloggy-Blog post today about dogs' owners cleaning up after them, and it reminded me of how my dog never urinates on fire hydrants, and how much I wish he would.

He'll pee on blades of tall grass or weeds, or on glistening patches of ivy, but never on fire hydrants. Sometimes he'll walk up to a hydrant and sniff it, and it's obvious that other dogs have marked it, because it's rusty in odd places, and I'll think, "Yes! He's going to pee on a fire hydrant, just like in the cartoons," and sometimes I'll even verbally encourage him, but he never does it.

Can someone please help me come up with an amusing final, one-sentence-paragraph for this? I'm drawing a blank.

New Spamix

Please go here for elaboration on Spamix.

Middle of the Road Rage

People keep asking about the status of the hummingbird and her chicks that nested in the plum tree in our backyard ("patio" is more accurate), so here's the scoop.

The chicks had gotten really big (as far as hummingbirds go), and the mother had taken to roosting elsewhere at night, leaving them alone in the nest, but we saw her regularly flying to the nest to feed them. We were out of town the weekend before last, and when we returned, there was only one chick left. We'd left our cat indoors, so we can rule out the possibility of the cat having eaten it. I have the slightest bit of hope that the chick had learned to fly, but there's obviously no way to know.

Last Saturday, I noticed that the baby bird had grown to almost the size of the mother, and it seemed more or less fully feathered, so I decided I'd better take a picture before it left the nest for good. I took my camera out to the nest, but when I got close, I heard the angry staccato clicking of the mother hummingbird about 20 feet above me. She dive-bombed me, and I could suddenly hear her ear-splitting clicks and the thunderous beating of her wings right next to my ear. Of course, it freaked me out, and I involuntarily ducked and ran from the tree (similar, yes, to the way a small girl might react). When I looked back, the nest was empty!

The baby bird wasn't on the ground anywhere, and I finally spotted it on top of the wooden fence. It sat there for a few minutes before flying to the flat garage roof where the mother came and fed it several times. We saw the bird stretching and flapping its wings, and flying short distances across the roof, with the mother close by. It seemed to have a little trouble with accuracy. After a few more minutes of "practicing," the baby bird left the roof and began flying over the yard with the mother actually guiding it by gently nudging the baby with her body, until they finally disappeared together over the rooftops.

That's the last we've seen of them. I guess our work here is done, and I'm sure that's more than any of you wanted to know.

Massachusetts

The Gold State

The Harold's show on Friday was really fun, and thanks for making it special, if anyone who made it special is reading this.

CMG

CMG kind of blew everybody away, I think, and then we played really well (if I may say so), and then The Pressure rocked the joint in a very crazed manner. In keeping with the tradition of tragedy and controversy that befalls all TGS shows, one of the members of Please Don't Throw Rocks at Us had to leave or something, so they couldn't play, which was kind of lame because we didn't have enough music to fill the evening, and the Harold's folks weren't really happy and it made us look "bad." But it was really cool of the other members of the band to hang out all night. I mean, why wouldn't they, because it was really fun anyway, but still. They're really nice, and there are certainly no hard feelings or anything. Fortunately, David of Novi Split gallantly volunteered to play, and he ended up doing a bunch of cover songs that all the stragglers merrily sung/yelled along to, and it was probably more fun than another band would have been.

The Gold State

I think we played the best we've ever played, due to the fact that we were reasonably well-practiced. Also, Brian and I could both hear ourselves singing, for a change, so the harmonies were really good, I was told. We were able to hear ourselves so well, I think, because we brought two monitors this time. The extra monitor was a pain to drag around, but it was worth it, and we'd do it again, because we don't care what you say and you are not the boss of us.

The Gold State

(Amanda took all the pictures)

Way Bigger Bargain

Mike at copacetic zine, in response to my ambiguous marquee picture, posted an even more ambiguous marquee picture that I just know you'll find ambiguous.

Big Fun Show Tonight - Like A Party or Something

Don't forget; you'll be sorry. The show starts at 9:00, and the bands play in the order shown here. Attention, girls and/or boys: There will be lots of girls and/or boys there.

Bathroom Eyes

There's a new guy at my day job. He's really nice, and I like him as much as one can like someone they hardly know in a setting where everyone has to be on his or her best behavior. The new guy is very clean cut, and I overheard him say that he's a Mormon.

I've known my share of Mormons in my day, and one thing they've all had in common is that none of them ever say, "Bless you," when people sneeze. It's as if they scoff at the notion. "Hmmph. YOU blessing ME? THAT'S a good one." Jehovah's Witnesses don't say, "Bless you," either. If someone ever fails to say, "Bless you," when someone sneezes, they're either an Atheist, a Mormon, a Jehovah's Witnesses, or some combination of those three things.

The new guy (If that IS his actual name) says, "Bless you." Therefore, I think he's a spy or an alien or something. That's my theory. THE END

Singing Songs of Sixpence (in the Rain)

We went camping in Joshua Tree last weekend, and I know what you're thinking: "The desert is so 70s, but not really in a cool way."

The last of the singing cowboy/burglars

I'm not really a desert-y kind of person myself, mostly because I don't like dryness and heat. I'm more of the cold 'n' damp sort, truth be told, but it's actually pretty cool in Joshua Tree this time of year. It was a really fun and "cowboy" locale in which to camp. There are all these crazy, giant, smooth rock formations that look vaguely man-made. The campgrounds are set up so that you camp right next to the giant rock formations, and it's like having your own personal little mountain thing.

One day, on a whim, we found ourselves on a four mile hike to an abandoned mine. It was nearing dark, and we kept doing math to try to figure out if we were going to be stuck out there after dark, and unavoidably, eaten by coyotes.

We kept passing people walking back from the direction of the mine, and we'd ask them if they'd made it. At first, everyone kept saying things like, "Oh, no, that trail's really rocky, and it's all uphill," and, "We felt like we were just walking forever." The trail was really rocky, and at times, it was difficult to know whether we were even on the trail or getting hopelessly lost.

Finally, after a certain point, every person we asked had made it to the mine, and they all were really encouraging and excited. They said things like, "You're almost there, it's just around that bend," and, "You'll see it once you get up over that ridge." In retrospect, I'm not even sure that the people were using the terms "Ridge" and "Bend" correctly.
We finally made it to the mine, which was a really fun and wholesome thing to have done. I figured on the way back, other mine-seekers would ask us if we'd made it to the mine, and I decided that I'd tell them, "Nah. We got about ten feet away and said, 'Screw it.'"

Live and Let Live and Let Live

I couldn't resist linking to this LA Times article that trashes the "Painter of Light," Thomas Kinkade. Apparently, he's kind of an asshole.

In sworn testimony and interviews, they recount incidents in which an allegedly drunken Kinkade heckled illusionists Siegfried & Roy in Las Vegas, cursed a former employee's wife who came to his aid when he fell off a barstool, and palmed a startled woman's breasts at a signing party in South Bend, Ind.

And then there is Kinkade's proclivity for "ritual territory marking," as he called it, which allegedly manifested itself in the late 1990s outside the Disneyland Hotel in Anaheim.

"This one's for you, Walt," the artist quipped late one night as he urinated on a Winnie the Pooh figure, said Terry Sheppard, a former vice president for Kinkade's company, in an interview.

Bargain?

This:

Be All That You Can Be Or Not

I'm confident that I'm not the first person to bring up this kind of thing.

Every day, on my way to the day job, when I walk past the building's front desk, the youngish guy who sits there greets me cheerily, and always addresses me as, "Sir," which I don't like much. I think the guy is being as sincere as possible, but I can't help but think the, "Sir," thing betrays a certain degree of contempt.

Today, he slipped and called me, "Man," though, which I liked much better. I'm going to see what I can do to trip him up again.

Upcoming Show

FRIDAY MARCH 10
@ HAROLD'S
19th & Pacific
San Pedro

THE GOLD STATE
with
-CMG-
-THE PRESSURE-
-PLEASE DON'T THROW ROCKS AT US-

9:00 & FREE

A Bayonet

I experienced something entirely new last night. I had a revelation, of sorts. A thought occurred to me that had never occurred to me before. Allow me to explain.

I was in my design/advertising class last night, and we were presenting our rough sketches for restaurant billboards. A couple of times, my classmates referred to restaurants such as P. F. Chang's as, "Really expensive," but I didn't think the restaurants were all that pricey. I could eat at P.F. Chang's all day long.

Then it hit me. "Oh my god. I totally make slightly more money than most of you people."